


Finding Peace

by Mimiheart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Trans Female Character, Transgender, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimiheart/pseuds/Mimiheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a great hero to defeat the Dark Lord. Sometimes it takes a greater one to face oneself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Peace

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains a fairly in-depth look at Gender Identity issues and the BDSM lifestyle. While there are some kinks played with and some kinky scenes, it isn't what I consider a "kinky fic". So, there's crossdressing and bondage and D/s, but it isn't what you'd think by just seeing those as a warning/advertisement.
> 
> This was written for the 2009 mixed Snarry Games. With the genre: Genderbender/Crossdressing, and the prompts: Secrets and Lies, Sanctuary
> 
> Thank you so much to my team. I have the best betas: Ivylady, Eeyore, and Leela Cat. My Brit Picker, Centaury Squill. And Tabby for moral support during the writing. You are all amazing and this fic is so much better because of you. Any remaining errors are mine.

I had once heard that a hero was someone who was "tired enough, cold enough, and hungry enough not to give a damn". Well, I wasn't particularly cold, but I reckoned I had been starved enough during my life that hungry could qualify. And, damn it, I was certainly tired. Tired didn't even begin to describe the sheer exhaustion I felt.

I was tired of fighting: fighting Death Eaters, fighting Ron and Hermione, fighting my room-mates, fighting the press, fighting the Dursleys, fighting dragons and Grindylows, even fighting Snape. I didn't think I would ever tire of fighting Umbridge—I wasn't entirely mad.

Maybe it came from the fighting, or maybe it came from Voldemort himself, but I was also tired of being angry. I had felt like I had gone through the year in a fog of anger, and I was tired of it. I didn't want to feel like I was going to explode at any minute any longer. 

And I was tired of pain. There was pure, physical pain of course. But more, there was the pain of losing people a kid my age shouldn't lose. The pain of losing my parents was perhaps more distant than it should've been. Cedric Diggory was far more real. And just now, Sirius. I didn't think pain like that could go away; my heart was surely being ripped from my chest. And maybe pain and anger weren't really different anyhow.

But mostly, I was tired of being tired. I wanted to sleep. To close my eyes and not have a nightmare or a vision, to not feel pain or relive memories, to simply rest... I just wanted to sleep.

So when Voldemort decided to take over my mind, I somehow or another found a determination and strength that could only be found through utter and sheer exhaustion. And through the pain of having my head ripped in two, I said with an exasperated sigh, "Would you just drop dead?"

And Voldemort did, shocking the seemingly unshockable Dumbledore in the process.

And, finally released from the pain, I fell face first to the ground, shivering.

I was somewhat aware of Dumbledore coming over to me and asking me if I was all right. I think I answered, "Yes," but I was still shaking and was just starting to notice my surroundings. I continued to speak, just then realising that, in fact, Voldemort was truly dead. "He's dead? Oh, God, I killed him. Who are all these people?"

I grabbed my glasses as Dumbledore supported me. Dozens of people were filtering into the atrium, but I couldn't quite focus on what was going on. 

"Is that...?" I heard one person ask.

"It IS!" 

"That's You Know Who!" 

"He really was back!"

"Was it the Boy Who Lived, or was it Dumbledore who destroyed..."

"Oh, don't be stupid, of course it was Potter."

"Couldn't have been, he's..."

If I had the energy I would have shouted for them to shut up. I brought pleading eyes up to Dumbledore. "Sir...?"

"Of course, dear boy, of course." Dumbledore turned his attention to the crowd. "As you can see, Harry has had a difficult and trying evening. He has also shown you that he was not, in fact, lying or delusional about the return of Voldemort. However, now that he has destroyed him for you, it is time for Harry to go back to Hogwarts and rest."

Fudge, who I had just noticed, spoke up. "Now see here. I cannot allow the boy to simply leave. He's destroyed the Fountain of Magical Brethren. We don't know what he's been telling tales about over the past year, and he owes us an explanation about what happened tonight."

I stood then, swaying slightly despite leaning against the wall. 

"I owe you nothing," I said, my voice calm. "For a year I have been saying that he was back. All you and your 'High Inquisitor' have done, with the help of your newspaper, is spread lies about me. And now—" I paused, running a hand through my hair. "—now that I have done your dirty work for you, you want me to stay and tell the tale?

"I'm sorry,  _Minister_ ," I almost hissed the word, "but I'm tired, and I have a splitting headache, and all I want to do is go back to Hogwarts, so you can take your explanation and shove it. Headmaster, is there any way I can get back to the school faster than I got here?"

"Of course," Dumbledore said, walking over to where the debris from the destroyed fountain lay and picking up a golden head. " _Portus_."

Fudge spluttered. "You can't just make an unauthorised Portkey in front of the Minister of Magic like that."

I snorted, but was stopped with a look from Dumbledore.

"I don't think you understood my student, Cornelius. He is going back to Hogwarts Castle. I am being reinstated as Headmaster. You will get no explanations from him tonight. If any further explanations are needed, you may have thirty minutes of my time. If that is not acceptable to you, Harry and I will be leaving in exactly ten seconds."

Fudge quickly changed his tone. "Oh, no, of course, Headmaster Dumbledore; a half hour of your time would be greatly appreciated."

"Good, then." He handed me the head. "Harry, wait in my office for me."

I felt the sickening pull behind my navel just as Dumbledore finished speaking. I landed in the office, tossed the head aside, and collapsed into a chair. With a burst of flame, Fawkes appeared on his perch and gave a little trill. 

"Thanks," I said. 

I distracted myself by trying to figure out how many stones made up Dumbledore's office. Some were covered by various objects and tapestries, but I didn't want to think about everything that had happened. I didn't want to think about Sirius or whether or not my friends were all right.

Eventually, though, my thoughts did turn to Sirius and my friends. How could I have been so incredibly stupid? Of course it would have been a trick from Voldemort. My Voldemort-free brain could clearly see what should have been obvious from the start. Now that his presence was no longer there, my head felt lighter. The oppressive rage from earlier was gone, and now I almost couldn't believe the danger I had placed my friends—and myself—in.

And then I realised something else. Something I hadn't really thought fully about until this point. I had used an Unforgivable Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange. I had also killed a man. And I couldn't bring myself to feel sorry for it. Maybe he was still inside me. Maybe he had managed to taint me during his time pressing in on my mind. Whatever the reason, I felt absolutely no remorse for the pain—however little it had been—that I had inflicted on Bellatrix. I felt less than that (Snape would sneer and say that's impossible, but I didn't particularly care about details) for killing Voldemort.

Sirius's death, however, I could and  _would_  feel remorse for. 

Dumbledore's appearance startled me from my destructive thought cycle. He heaved a heavy sigh and sat in his chair, rubbing a hand through his white beard. For the first time in my memory, he seemed really, truly,  _old_. He looked at me over his half-moon spectacles, and I had to force myself not to look away.

Silence can come in all sorts of forms. There was the snickering not-quite silence that happens in the Great Hall just before Dumbledore is about to speak. There was the hatred-filled silence that the Dursleys would give me—somehow expecting me to be able to read their minds and serve them breakfast without ever breaking it. There was the blessed silence of my cupboard late at night after Dudley had fallen asleep and I was finally free to rest. There was the uncomfortable silence of second and fourth years, when I would walk into the common room or library, and suddenly all conversation would stop. And then there was this.

I didn't even know what to call this silence. Uncomfortable was an understatement. We sat there, staring at each other. Dumbledore was stroking his beard, and I tried to think of something to say. I didn't know if there  _was_  something to say. I had a dozen questions, yet none of them seemed to be able to come out. There was no offer of a lemon drop. No tea. We just sat there, our eyes meeting each other, neither speaking a word.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I turned away first, covered myself with my arms, as if they could somehow protect me from his piercing blue gaze, and said, "Sirius is dead."

"So is Tom Riddle."

"I killed him." I wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement. I also wasn't sure which man I was referring to.

"If you are referring to Voldemort, it was your destiny. If you are speaking of Sirius, then, my dear boy, you are mistaken."

I lifted my eyes to look at him again. "My destiny?"

"Aren't you at all curious as to what the prophecy contained?"

The prophecy? I had almost forgotten about the prophecy. It seemed so pointless now. After being so focused on it for so long, I now felt almost detached from it. Maybe it was grief. Hermione would be able to tell me. Thinking of Hermione made me think of the rest of my friends that I had put in harm's way over that stupid, pointless prophecy.

"Are Ron and the others okay?"

Dumbledore gave me a meaningful stare. "They have no lasting damage."

I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for them to get hurt. I never wanted that."

"I know. But I'm afraid what's done is done."

Yes. I knew that. Sirius was still dead. Voldemort was dead. I had used Cruciatus on Bellatrix. I had put my friends in danger. I really wanted nothing more than to go to bed and forget that the entire evening had happened. Maybe it hadn't. But then, there was the fact that, for the first time in a year, the constant pain in my head was gone. I had become so used to it that the  _lack_  of pain was almost painful. Instead there was an ache in my heart that no amount of time, I was sure, would be able to heal.

I was getting ready to ask Dumbledore if we could either skip the rest of the conversation or put it off until later, when I let out a huge yawn. Embarrassed, I turned my head away. "I'm sorry, sir. It's been a long night."

"Of course, my boy, of course."

I wished he wouldn't call me that. "Can I go back to my dorm now?" I started to get out of my chair.

"Aren't you curious about the prophecy?"

I paused and sat back in the chair. I should be. I knew I should be. Even without Voldemort's presence in my head, that prophecy concerned me. So much had been lost over it, and so much had been gained. But it had been destroyed, and I found it honestly didn't matter to me. "Not really. Besides, it was lost."

"I know what it said. I was there when it was given."

"If it's all the same to you, sir, perhaps I wasn't meant to hear it. Maybe we aren't meant to know our own destinies."

For the first time that night, a small bit of a twinkle appeared in his eyes, though they still seemed sad and impossibly old. "You are far wiser than any boy your age has any right to be. You have been through so much, and much of it, I admit, was my fault, but I think even I can learn from you." 

I had no idea what to say to that. 

"If you ever wish to hear the prophecy, you may. The contents don't really matter now. You should go to your dormitory and rest. Sleep and friends will do you good now, I think."

Sleep and friends. As exhausted as I was, I didn't think that would be a problem. I would just need to stop thinking for a while. Dumbledore escorted me back to Gryffindor tower. If we spoke of anything, I don't remember it. I'm somewhat amazed I made it there without collapsing; whatever I had been running on had long since gone.

I looked down at the grime covering me, and decided having a wash wouldn't be amiss.

"You look horrible! You really should do something about those circles under your eyes," the mirror was happy to inform me.

"Yeah, thanks." The mirror was right. But I didn't  _look_  any different than I had the morning before. Surely a killer, someone who had just lost the closest thing to a father he had ever had, and someone who had cast an Unforgivable should look different, right? 

I decided that thinking about it was too much for my tired mind. I went to the dorm, pulled back the canopy, and fell onto my bed without so much as taking off my shoes.

* * *

 

Time heals all wounds, so they say. Well, it did the physical ones at least; Ron and Hermione were released from the hospital a few days later. I didn't feel much better, though.

The first meal back in the Great Hall was frightening. Hundreds of owls came down and tried to land at my spot. Snape seemed to delight in sending the birds away as McGonagall and Dumbledore shooed me out of the room. It was then that I was informed by Dumbledore that I would have to go back to the Dursleys. Not all of those owls were from friends and admirers. He felt it would be in my "best interests" to stay in a quiet home away from the wizarding world. Of course, there was also the added protection my mother's love gave—just in case any rogue Death Eaters decided to come after me.

So, after an owl diversion spell had been cast on me (making even Hedwig avoid me; she was to stay with Ron), I was back on the Hogwarts Express, heading back to Number four, Privet Drive. Hermione tried to get me to talk. I found more comfort in Luna, who was being her normal, albeit unique, self. At least she didn't make me tell her  _exactly_  what it felt like to kill somebody.

That was the question of the moment. No one seemed to care about Sirius, or how I felt about him. No, everything was, "How'd you  _do_  it?" or "What's it feel like to be the Teen-Who-Lived?" The lower years, though, wanted to know what it felt like to kill. Hermione wanted me to talk about it. She wanted me to work out my feelings. I didn't know how I felt. For all that I knew it was real, it didn't seem real.

Luna didn't ask me anything like that. Whether that was because she knew I didn't want to talk about it or because she was on whatever planet Loony, I didn't know, but I really didn't care. It made for a nice break on the train back to London. Mostly, she and I just sat and looked out of the window at the passing scenery. I tried to avoid everyone else... and everyone else tried to avoid her.

Before we got off at King's Cross, she said, "Just watch out for the Purple-faced Morckleblob."

"Of course, Luna."

Uncle Vernon was waiting as I got off the platform. So was a line of people I recognised as reporters. Before I really knew what was happening, I was surrounded by Weasleys, Order members, and Luna and Neville. Some of the other students joined in as well. They blockaded my uncle and me against the reporters and swept us to his car. I found out later that Uncle Vernon had had a discussion with Remus and Mr. Weasley just before the train had arrived, and they were largely directing the flow.

My relief at reaching the car unmolested by reporters was short-lived. Uncle Vernon was livid at having been spoken to by wizards, and then having been  _touched_  by them. "We took you in, gave you the clothes off little Dudley's back, and how do you repay us? You tried to kill Dudley last summer, and now you've killed someone for real. Those men told me what you did. You're a murderer, you are. And now,  _now_  we're expected to just let you back into our home as if nothing happened. Freakish, murdering, son of a drunken..."

I didn't bother saying anything during his rant. His voice just faded in to the background as I looked out of the window. If there was one thing living with the Dursleys had taught me over the years, it was that there was no use trying to argue with them. Especially when Vernon was in a rage. And he was in a rage; his face had turned purple as went on and on about how I had done nothing but bring misfortune on his precious family.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," I said at regular intervals. Best keep him happy.

"... and that's why your Aunt Petunia and Dudley are going on holiday."

I was sure I didn't hear that right. "WHAT?"

"You're too dangerous to be around them. I'm not having them in the house with a murderer. And seeing as those other  _freaks_ ," he hissed the word, "have threatened me, ME, in my own home, I'm sending Petunia and Dudley away to visit my sister. Marge has been asking to see them for a while, and this summer seems the perfect time."

Great.

* * *

"Boy!" 

I winced. I hated that. Of all the things he called me, 'boy' was the worst. I didn't examine it too closely, though. "Coming, Uncle Vernon."

"Here are your chores. I have a special guest coming tonight. You  _will_  prepare a suitable supper for her. Do you understand?" he bellowed, grabbing the front of my shirt in his fist.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"After preparing it and putting it on the plates, you will..."

"Go to my room, make no noise, and pretend I don't exist."

"Quite right. There will be  _no_  evidence of your existence in this house by the time we get home," he said, giving me a look.

"What time?" I asked.

"Six, exactly."

He left, locking me in as much as he locked others out. Aunt Petunia and Dudley had left two days after I got back from Hogwarts. During that time, Uncle Vernon had worked feverishly on "Harry-proofing" the house. The bars that had previously only been on Dudley's second bedroom now graced every window. He had locks on the doors going in, and for good measure, going out. I looked over at my old cupboard. Being locked in wasn't unfamiliar. I thought I should have been more upset by it than I was. Instead, it offered a strange measure of security. At least I knew what awaited me in the confines of this house.

Vernon did have me do gardening, but only on the weekends when he could be sure to supervise me. During the week, my chores were more centred on keeping the house tidy. Occasionally he gave me a special project. Cooking wasn't an unusual chore. Cooking a special meal for a guest, however, was. Maybe if I were lucky and cooked well enough (and made too much), he would give me leftovers.

I looked at the list in my hands. At first glance, there was nothing particularly difficult on it, though I was curious about how I was supposed to do all of the chores on the list with the ever-present:  _Don't touch ANYTHING!_  at the bottom. I almost wished there were more difficult things to do. When the tasks were more difficult, I could concentrate on them. With mindless tasks like vacuuming and polishing, my mind tended to drift to more unpleasant topics.

I glanced down at the list again.  _Clean attic_. Well, that wouldn't be mindless. I decided to vacuum and polish the dining and living areas first. Then I would decide on a meal for Vernon and his guest. Cleaning the attic could take all week. I best get the other things out of the way first. At least if he had a guest here tonight, he wouldn't check on it until after the guest had gone, and cleaning the main part of the house wouldn't take long—with only myself and Vernon there, it wasn't that dirty to begin with.

Two hours later, I finished vacuuming the living room. I was right, and the standard chores didn't take me long at all. It wasn't hard to find some things to prepare for dinner that wouldn't take more than an hour to cook either. At least Aunt Petunia had left us well stocked. 

"We can't have you going hungry while I'm gone, dear. The boy can cook well enough," she'd said to Uncle Vernon.

I climbed through the narrow opening into the attic. I had no idea the last time anyone had been up here. Vernon and Dudley couldn't have fit, and it didn't look like Aunt Petunia had been up here in years. It smelled of mothballs, and there was a thick layer of dirt over everything. I snorted, took in a nose-full of dust, and sneezed. At least there wouldn't be any Boggarts here.

There was no way this was a one-day project. It didn't matter, though, because there was also no way that Vernon would be able to tell if I was doing anything up here at all. I also wasn't quite sure what  _Clean attic_  meant. Did he want the boxes up here dusted? Things thrown away? Maybe the whole thing needed to be repainted. I decided on dusting and organising. If he wanted me to sort through and throw things away, I could do it tomorrow after the morning lecture. At least I'd be sorting through things that had less dust on them.

I knew from past experience that it was better to find a small spot and just start. If I looked at the amount of work that needed to be done, I'd overwhelm myself and never start. Starting to my left and going clockwise made as much sense as anything else, so that's what I did. Most of it was boxes of old toys that Dudley had played with for a week before breaking. I couldn't imagine why the Dursleys had kept them at all. They had probably conjured some horrible story about me in their heads; I would sneak out of my locked cupboard in the middle of the night and take a broken toy for myself.

I finished one pile and moved on to an old trunk. A lock had been placed on the front, and packing tape had been wrapped around it. 

_Well, whatever is in there isn't getting out_ , I thought. I wiped it off with the rag, and a flash of memory came to me.

Aunt Petunia used to have silk and velvet tops in her closet that she never wore. By then, I could recognise them as having been from the '70s. When I was little, I just liked the feel of them. Especially the silk. I put on one of the silk tops (it fit like a dress) and stuck my feet in her high-heeled shoes. I was so pretty! That was all I wanted at the time, because if I were a pretty little girl, then she and Uncle Vernon wouldn't hate me so much. They wouldn't think I was trying to hurt Dudders, because little girls don't hurt little boys, right? And I didn't feel like a little boy anyhow. I was going into Aunt Petunia's bathroom to put on her make-up when she found me.

Uncle Vernon put all of Aunt Petunia's "old clothes" in the trunk that day. I got a bad spanking out of it, too. Little boys—and I  _was_  a little boy—didn't play dressing up. Little boys—and I  _was_  a little boy—played in the dirt and wrestled. But I was just a  _freak_ —and wasn't I though? And he should have known that freaks like me have to be watched very carefully. Then he put the lock on the trunk. And taped it for good measure.

I hate it when he calls me  _boy_. Somehow,  _freak_  seems to fit better. I traced over the scar etched on my hand.  _I must not tell lies_. 

Well, at least my mind was off being a murderer.

* * *

Vernon's special guest was a woman. Vernon's special guest was a woman who was  _very_  impressed by his cooking. And his drills. And his house. And his garden. And  _everything_  about him.

And I had never known how thin the walls were in this house before, which is kind of amazing when you consider I had been living with Dudley's temper tantrums, Vernon's temper, and Petunia's shrill voice most of my life. During the past week, Amanda-call-me-Mandy had come over five times. Each time, I had had to make the house shine. Each time, I had been locked in my room where I didn't exist. Each time, I had lain on my bed after they had dined and listened to them have dessert. In the master bedroom. And each time, I had had to fight not to be sick.

I had come to a few conclusions during this time. One was that Aunt Petunia must never have had sex with Uncle Vernon after Dudley; the man made the entire house shake. After I came to that conclusion, I decided it was best not to think of them ever having sex... period. I didn't think this was the same squeamish feeling others got when they thought of their parents as sexual beings—I felt that when I thought of Mr and Mrs Weasley—no, this was pure and utter horror at the thought of Uncle Vernon being naked with anyone, which unfortunately was what was happening whenever his special guest came over.

I tried to feel bad for Aunt Petunia, but with the, "Oh, God, more! You're so AMAZING!" coming from the bedroom, all I could do was feel sorry for  _me_. Uncle Vernon was none too quiet either. Sometimes, they felt the need to describe in detail what they were doing to each other. And between the descriptions were screams, moans, grunts, and cries. I guess it was supposed to sound like pleasure, but to me it sounded like a torture session. I was certainly being tortured.

I also concluded that I never,  _ever_  wanted to have sex. This wasn't a particularly new thought to me. The other boys in the dorm had been experimenting all year long—at least with their hands—but I wasn't interested. This just cemented the deal. Sex was out. Putting my penis into a girl was not happening. Ever. It sounded disgusting, and I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why anyone would want to do it.

It wasn't that I didn't appreciate girls. I did. Really. They had beautiful forms and clothes and shoes and hair. I appreciated them to the bordering point of envying them. It was just... sticking anything into them just didn't appeal. My disastrous date with Cho Chang earlier in the year had been the start of that line of thought; the thought of the poor woman with Uncle Vernon was the end.

Another  _thud_  came from the master bedroom and with it a moan. The poor excuse for a pillow I had been given did nothing to block out the noise. Maybe the cupboard under the stairs was quieter. 

Finally the sounds died down in the other room. Midnight. Happy birthday to me.

* * *

For all that the summer was torturous in some respects, it did help in some others. Sirius's death seemed more distant, for one. My killing Voldemort almost seemed like a dream, for another. When I returned to King's Cross with the Weasleys and Hermione, I wasn't mobbed by reporters. It seemed that the world had enough darkness. Whether they had believed me or not last year, the feel of it was there.

The routine at Hogwarts helped me heal more than anything. Our new Defence professor was a little absent minded, but very kind. I had managed to get an 'O' in Potions, so Snape was forced to let me back in. Putting up with his insults lent an air of normality to my life that I think I would have missed otherwise. I dropped Divination and History though. I didn't need them to become an Auror, though I was no longer sure that was what I really wanted to do.

Without Voldemort, it seemed my life had become sufficiently dull. It was weird that instead of dealing with the constant threat of death, I was dealing with breakups of my friends, (Ron and Hermione seemed to be together and apart every other week—I wasn't taking sides.) advances from girls, (no, Ginny, I really  _do_  think of you like a little sister) homework, Quidditch, and the occasional party in our dorm.

The dorm parties were Seamus and Dean's invention. They decided that we deserved some time off from all of our studying. So every time there was a Hogsmeade weekend, they and the seventh year boys got Firewhisky and other treats for our dorm. It was strictly a men-only party. If Ron ever told Hermione about it, it would have been a cause for one of their notorious breakups. As it was, since he was a Prefect, he pretended to turn a blind eye to it, while getting just as drunk as the rest of us. If Hermione ever noticed that the next morning we all had horrible headaches and only picked at the food in front of us, she wisely kept her mouth shut.

Seamus and Dean didn't just bring alcohol. Wizarding and Muggle magazines full of naked women were also on the menu. I tried to show the same interest in the pictures that the other boys showed—even Neville was drooling over some of the women—and I guess I was a pretty good actor, because none of the others ever called me on the fact that the naked women did nothing for me. Aside from my decision to never have sex, I supposed I was just a late bloomer. I mean, the others were at least getting hard from all of this. Maybe I was the only one  _looking_  to see that fact, though.

It wasn't until the last party of the year that Dean brought in a magazine that had anything even remotely interesting in it for me. It was a Muggle magazine with a crass name, like most of them. The woman on the cover wasn't naked or wearing skimpy lingerie, which was unusual. Instead, she wore a rubber corset and knee-high boots, her hair held in a high ponytail. In her hand was a whip. I took the magazine more out of curiosity than genuine interest. I couldn't imagine what it was that anyone could like about a whip. Inside were more pictures of women in leather and rubber. Many holding various instruments of torture in their hands. 

"Do people actually like using these? Or are they just for the pictures?" I idly wondered aloud.

One of the women was holding up something that looked like a clump of barbed wire. She had a stilettoed heel digging into another woman's back... it and her bottom had been torn apart. I paled.

"Some people are into S and M, Harry." Seamus looked like I was from another planet. I felt like I was. "Sadomasochism. Here." He turned the page to another picture.

This was an entirely different idea. While most of the women in the magazines looked like they were posing, the woman in this picture looked... _free_ , which was odd, given her circumstances. She had on a broad collar, and a leash had been attached to it. Her arms were bound by an odd leather device behind her back, pulled up and over her head, and she wore a leather harness that kept her breasts separated. Her legs had been forced apart by a bar, and the leash was dragging her forward. Had this been a wizarding photo, she couldn't have been moving. But the expression on her face was one I hadn't seen before. I stared at the image. I knew her arse was bared for someone to whip, but maybe... maybe the person would stroke it first with a warm hand. I felt a warm flush run up my neck as I stared at her.

The other boys in the room chuckled. They didn't understand. They all thought I wanted to  _do_  her. But as I stared at the picture, at her impossible-to-achieve-without-help position, at her face, I knew the impossible truth. I wanted to  _be_  her.

* * *

Dean let me keep that magazine. He said that he had no interest in tying girls up, but that was the most turned on he had ever seen me, and if I needed that "crazy shite" to get off, it was all right by him. I accepted the magazine with a flush, then shoved it under the clothes in my trunk as we packed up to go home for our last summer. I was to stay with the Dursleys until the first of August, then I was going to stay at the Burrow for the rest of the summer. Mrs. Weasley said she'd help me look for a place to live when I finished Hogwarts, depending on what I was going to do. (Of course, I was welcome to stay with them.)

I told Professor McGonagall that maybe Auror wasn't the right job for me. I still didn't like the fact that I had  _killed_  someone. At times it made me sick to think about it. And really, as good as I was at defence, I didn't have a passion for it. She advised me to keep on my current track—the classes I was taking were useful in many careers. I didn't have to make a firm decision right now, anyhow. 

It felt weird packing my trunk with the other sixth-years. Maybe it was because it was the first time nothing catastrophic had happened to mark the end of the year. Ron wasn't here right now. He and Hermione were together again, and I knew she was going to France for a month with her family. They were probably saying goodbye.

Oh, well, another month with the Dursleys. I could handle that. I could.

I certainly wasn't expecting Dudley to be the one picking me up from the station. He seemed none too happy about it, as well. Amazingly during the year, I had grown enough that I almost matched him in height, though I prayed I'd never match him in girth. He pointed with the keys to his car, though made no attempt to help me load my trunk into it.

"It's your fault, you know," he sneered as soon as we were on our way.

"What is?"

"Mum and Dad're getting a divorce. And it's your fault."

"How's it my fault?"

"Dad sent us away last year 'cos of you. And he met that girl. And Mum found out. And it's your fault."

Ah, so that was my fault. "Sorry, Dudders. I'm afraid the fault is all your dad's."

He nearly drove the car off the road while trying to swing at me while driving. I ducked away from his fist while he shouted, "You take that back!"

"I didn't do anything!"

"Mum said..."

"I don't care what your mum said. Your dad's a grown man. He made the decisions he made on his own. I was with him last summer, but I had no part in those decisions.  _None_."

"But after everything we've given you, you don't even act grateful. He just left Mum. Said he was tired of your freakish ways. It  _was_  your fault."

I sighed. "Dudley, he'd been putting up with 'my freakish ways' for years. Last summer I did nothing but clean and cook for him. Like I had done for my entire life with you before that. He locked me in my room like he had done before when she came over. I had no control over it. I'm sorry it happened. I'm sorry you're hurting. But  _I didn't do it_."

Then Dudley did something I hadn't ever seen him do before. He cried. Not the temper tantrum fake tears that he turned on when he wanted something. Not the shaken-sobbing mess he had been after the Dementors. Dudley in that moment almost seemed human. Large crocodile tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he sniffled. It was surreal.

"I'm sorry, Harry." He sniffed.

"Me too."

"It's just. It's been hard. I still see 'im. But Mum's never really worked, and she cares more about what the neighbours think. And he's my dad, and I love him." 

I tried to find a tissue, but Dudley didn't seem to care... he just wiped his nose on his sleeve. After he calmed down, he told me a bit about what was going on. He told me that he was working now; to help bring in a little bit of money to supplement what Uncle Vernon sent them. I almost felt bad for them. Almost. Then I got to Number Four, Privet Drive, and Aunt Petunia laid the law down for  _me_.

Due to the fact that she and her  _dear_  Vernon had done so much for me over the years, it was high time I paid her back. Especially since  _I_  had driven him to madness. I successfully dodged the oven glove she threw at me when she finished with the initial rant, then I took in the state of the kitchen. Normally, even after I had been gone for the school year, the house was immaculate. Now, though, there was trash on the counters, which looked to be covered in sticky goo. A line of ants marched determinedly across the sink. Tea towels and oven gloves were thrown about the room haphazardly. The pile of dishes and pans in the sink had spilt out of the sink and onto the counter and kitchen table. I didn't want to look into the other rooms to see what they looked like.

"Aunt Petunia, what is it you want me to do?"

I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe for her to tell me to get a job, or to get out, or clean, or magic her husband back. I really don't know. I DO know that I wasn't expecting her to burst into tears. Twice in one day I had had to comfort people who I was convinced had no emotional range beyond anger and jealousy. I also didn't quite know what to do. She sat in a chair and wailed into a dishcloth. Dudley stepped away from her as if she were on fire. I awkwardly patted her back.

I looked at Dudley. "Get her a glass of water. Or something."

Dudley, who was looking completely lost, was glad for at least  _some_  direction. He got the water, and dumbly pushed it into his mother's hand.

"Th... thank you, Sweetums. So good, thinking of your mother..." She blew her nose loudly into the dishcloth.

I rolled my eyes. "Have you eaten?"

She seemed to have forgotten I was even there. "We h... haven't any food." Her voice broke on the last word into another sob, and she started into the dishcloth again. I looked in the refrigerator and food cupboards; she was right, there really was no food. Even if there were, I didn't think there was anything clean to cook  _with_. 

"Dudley, you said you had a job, now. Do you have any money on you?"

"A little."

"Enough for a pizza?"

"Er, yeah."

"Good. Go order one." I looked at his belly. "Maybe two."

He gave me a bit of a smile. "Okay."

I tried to ignore the mess in the living room as I guided Aunt Petunia to the couch. She was pale and shaky, and thinner than ever. I was having a similar reaction at the state of the house. My brain knew that Uncle Vernon wouldn't be home to punish me for it, that it wasn't my fault, but I couldn't stop the reaction ingrained in me from growing up here.

"Pizza's on its way!" Dudley called, pleased with himself.

"Good. I'm going to clean up the kitchen as best I can so that you can actually eat in there."

Dudley looked at me, then. Actually looked at me. Not as if I were something to be squashed beneath his shoe, or a part of some game, but—dare I say it—as a sort of comrade-in-arms, in this mess as much as he was. At the very least, he knew he was in over his head and that I could take charge.

I wished I had asked Dean and Seamus for some of their Firewhisky. If Petunia didn't want it, I sure could use some. I started at the sink. I needed a place to put the stuff from the table. I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep until the house had some semblance of order. It was now a fundamental part of my personality that this house be kept clean. I could handle sleeping with the boys in the dorm, but this was different.

The pizza arrived as I was finishing putting away a third round of dishes. The counter tops were clear, but the floor was still disgusting. At least I had managed to get the dirty cloth items to the laundry—well, the ones from the kitchen anyhow.

After getting Petunia in bed and assuring Dudley that his help wasn't needed, I started on the rest of the downstairs. 

Who knew that having no Uncle Vernon could be worse than having him?

* * *

"Why are you grinning like that, Dudley?" I backed away from him.

"Nothing..."

"Dudley, what is behind your back?"

"Can't a guy wish his cousin a happy birthday without him being all suspicious?"

I backed into the corner of the kitchen counters. I looked around desperately before realising I was trapped. The look on Dudley's face was frightening. He hadn't tried hurting me since that first day in the car; we'd actually been getting along rather well, but now he looked like that cat that got the canary. He reached with one hand and pulled my magazine out of his back pocket, holding just out my reach.

"Give it here, Dudley. You don't want your Mum to catch you with that."

"She won't... she's gone for the day."

"Dudley, please, it's mine."

"I know, I pulled it out of your trunk." 

I made a grab at it and he easily kept it away from me.

"Now, you know what was in here?"

"No, what was in there?" It seemed best to play his games if I wanted it back.

"An ad for a little club that has, what did they call it, 'play parties' a few times a month."

"So?"

"So, for your birthday, I'm taking you to one of those parties, cousin."

I stared at him dumbly for a moment. This was not something that Dudley could have thought of on his own. Even though we were getting along. Even though I had managed to get him and his mother back to some semblance of normality, Dudley could  _not_  have figured this out on his own. Then, I remembered something.

"Dud, those clubs require you be 21 and older to enter. With a photo I.D. I don't have a photo I.D., and we're not 21."

"Yes you do. And of course you're 21," he looked at something in his hand, "'Nigel'." He handed me a small card.

The person on the card looked a little like me, I guess. He had black hair and glasses. If they just glanced at it, it would work. 

"Where'd you get this?" I asked.

"Those're easy. I've been getting 'em and losing 'em for years. If you get caught in a pub with one, worst thing they do is throw you out. Piers and me use them most weekends, and at school everyone has 'em."

I probably should have been more surprised than I was.

I also probably should have been more surprised that the fake I.D.s worked. My nervousness at using them was chalked up to nervousness at going to the club (which everyone was calling a dungeon—I snorted, this was a bit less intimidating than Snape's dungeon) for the first time.

Dudley, however, was acting as if he did this all the time. For all I knew, he did. A nice woman who introduced herself as "girl Sarah" gave us a guided tour of the dungeon. There were cushioned rooms set up like a sultan's chamber with flowing draperies; there was a small room with a few couches where a man was sitting with a woman curled up in a blanket on his lap. Girl Sarah explained that it was an aftercare area. There was a small kitchen where a few people mingled and snacked. There was a pole dancing room, with insane music, and flashing lights—guaranteed to give anyone a headache. 

Girl Sarah paused and turned to us, "Any part of the floor that's painted red is a 'safe zone.' No playing is allowed on the red, and you can move about freely there. The black, however, is a playing zone... people will throw whips, floggers, canes... knives... on the black zone. You're on your own there. Now, we have DMs," at our blank stares, she elaborated, "Dungeon Monitors, on the floor. They're there to make sure that if you're in a scene and playing with someone, you're safe. If you're with someone they know you've been with for a while, they may back off, so don't let something you're seeing scare you away. Otherwise, if you're out there, and someone steps over the line with you, as a top or a bottom, if you yell, 'RED!' the DMs can and will stop the scene. That's the universal safeword here."

Dudley and I nodded as if we knew what she was talking about. The important part we got through our heads, don't step on the black part of the dungeon floor. A whip crack made me look out at that section of the room. A woman wearing leather trousers and a leather jacket was cracking the whip, but didn't seem to be aiming it at anyone.

"It's early yet, most of our regulars aren't here yet. You two should mingle and introduce yourselves. Good to meet you, Nigel, Theodor." She winked at me.

"I'm going to the kitchen, you want anything?"

"No thanks." My attention had shifted; there was a man dressed in black leather trousers and a black vest leading another man onto the play area. 

The other man had a black  _something_  over his head, he was being led gently by a leash attached to a collar on his neck. He wore nothing else. Whatever was over his head must have been blinding him, the only hole I could see was a small one where his nostrils were. The man in black took him to a padded bench-type thing. It had three levels, one where his knees were placed, one for his torso, and one for his arms. This left him with his naked arse in the air, and his penis hanging down.

"Do you want to spank him?" 

I jumped, I hadn't heard girl Sarah sit down next to me.

"No!" I said emphatically.

"Andrew doesn't usually just get spanked, he usually gets tied up. I wonder what's going on with the spanking bench... ah..."

The man in black pulled out a long length of rope. Then he took Andrew's arms and pulled them carefully behind his back, using the rope to secure them to each other. The man in black rubbed Andrew's back the entire time, whispered in his ear, then took out another length of rope. This one he used to tie Andrew's legs both together and to the spanking bench. 

Girl Sarah spoke again. "If you don't want to spank him, do you want to tie him up?"

I flushed. "Not really."

"Did you want to be tied up?"

"I... I didn't know men  _could_. I mean, I've only ever seen pictures, and they're all of women."

"Nigel, are you interested in women?" She pointed at a different scene going on, an attractive woman was having her hair somehow bound to her feet by an equally attractive man. It was interesting in a clinical way, but I found my eyes drifting back to the man in black.

"I guess so."

"Would you be at all interested in having  _me_  tie you up?" I started to answer, but she continued, "Or would you rather he," she gestured at a tall man wearing nothing but rubber underwear, "tie you up?"

I thought I would die right there when the man looked straight at me when I said in a quiet voice, "Him."

She smiled, "Now, that wasn't so hard. We're pretty open here at the dungeon. If you like other guys, that's great. You just have to know that that's what you're looking for."

I turned back to the man in black, who seemed to have finished with his handiwork, and was now simply sitting back and watching Andrew.

"So, you're a shirt-lifter?" Dudley's voice startled me.

"Er, I guess."

"It's about time you realised it. Mum and I were wondering when you'd catch on."

I tried to hide my shock at Dudley's reaction. Maybe he  _had_  grown up when I wasn't looking. Perhaps Uncle Vernon's leaving wasn't as bad as it could have been.

"Thanks, that means a lot."

"Don't mention it. Just don't make me watch any more of  _that_  either. I'm going back to the kitchens. Or maybe the harem room. There's a girl doing belly dances."

I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to the floor. The man in black was caressing Andrew's exposed bottom. It seemed to be the only part of him that didn't have rope on it. He placed a few soft spankings on Andrew's bottom, and I could almost hear the moan they produced. Maybe that moan was from me.

I watched as the scene progressed from soft spankings to harder ones. Andrew's bottom was red and bruised by the time the scene was over, and though anyone could have been watching, they seemed oblivious to the fact that they weren't the only ones in world, let alone the room. As meticulously as the ropes had gone on, they came off. 

Andrew didn't seem to know that his bottom was bruised. He sat up without a flinch, though he was shivering so violently that I could see it from my side of the room. Quickly, the man in black grabbed a blanket from the bag and wrapped it around Andrew. He placed his hand over where Andrew's eyes must have been under the black thing, and carefully removed it, shielding him from the low light in the room.

He brought a bottle of water to Andrew's mouth and helped him drink it. I had never seen such care taken for anyone before. Andrew leaned gratefully against the man in black. Wrapping the blanket around himself as best he could, he stood on shaky legs and gathered some paper towels and cleaning solution. The man in black left the play area with his bag as Andrew cleaned up the spanking bench and their empty water bottles.

"Enjoy the show, Mr. Potter?"

I knew that voice. I turned towards it and saw the man in black. I looked up into his face, dreading what I would see.

"Hello, Professor Snape, what're you doing here?" I tried to sound confident, but it ended up coming out as a squeak. 

He looked over to where Andrew was walking, still shivering, towards us. "I will deal with you in a minute," he said to me. He then led Andrew to the aftercare area.

I had to find Dudley.

* * *

Professor Snape and I never had what could be called a good relationship. While the open animosity we had held for each other during fifth year had died down, there was too much of a past for us to ever consider anything more than a somewhat strained acquaintanceship. Although I made it into the NEWT-level class, I certainly never applied myself more than needed. For his part, Snape treated me with the same level of respect that one would treat something they scraped off the bottom of their shoe—only perhaps with more insults. Neither of us ever forgot the disastrous Occlumency lessons, but neither did we ever bring them up. I did my best to avoid him outside of class, and that seemed to work best for the both of us.

This time, however, I was stuck. After avoiding Snape for a year, I had apparently walked right into his lair, and he was furious. 

Dudley tried to reassure me as we waited in an aftercare room for Snape. "He can't be that bad," he said. "He seemed to be taking real good care of that bloke."

Yes, he had. Four hours prior I hadn't even thought that men could do things like that together. For some reason (I blamed Uncle Vernon), I thought that men had to take control of women. After watching my professor tie another man up, that was all I could think of having done to me. 

The door slammed open, and Professor Snape walked in. "What are you playing at, Potter?" he hissed.

"I'm not playing!" 

"This is not a game. This is not Hogwarts where you can convince the headmaster to turn a blind eye to your rule breaking..."

"I know! I'm not playing a game."

"What is this to you?"

"I don't know. But it's not a game." I was telling the truth. He  _had_  to see that.

"What is it you wanted when you came here? Did you want to tie up some unsuspecting woman? Spank her? Make her bleed? Hmm? Vanquishing the Dark Lord wasn't enough for you, time for you to take it out on helpless Muggles?"

"NO!"

"You  _lied_  to get in here. You broke rules. Rules that weren't just for your benefit, but for the safety of all those who come here. You could have hurt my friends." He added in a whisper, "My family."

"I didn't think..."

"You never think."

I looked down.

"This Lifestyle is based on trust. In one night, you've managed to break the trust of every single person here. I'd tell you you managed to break mine, as well, but you didn't have mine to begin with."

That hurt, and I wasn't sure why.

"Get out. When you're twenty-one, they may see fit to allow you back, though I will do everything in my power to keep you away from here."

"Professor, I didn't come here to hurt anyone," I spoke in a low voice. "I just... I wanted to see. I wanted to know. I was curious..."

"Curiosity killed the cat. You've never thought about anyone other than yourself in anything you've ever done. How many people have you gotten _killed_  because of it?"

That was a low blow, even for Snape.

He turned his back on us and pointed at the door. "Get. Out."

We fled.

* * *

I had screwed up. I knew it, but I didn't know what to do about it. So I did what I always did. Nothing.

I went to the Weasleys' as planned. I pushed my anger and guilt aside as I had done after Sirius had died. I tried to ignore the nightmares that came back. If Ron and Hermione noticed anything odd, they didn't mention it. I never mentioned what happened to them.

Soon enough, school started. I wasn't sure what I was expecting when I got back. The same as sixth year, with maybe more nagging from Hermione due to the NEWTs, I suppose. I knew I was partially dreading Snape's class. Part of me wanted to see him again, even though I knew I wasn't going to see the man who had tied up Andrew at the dungeon. I  _do_  know I wasn't expecting to open my trunk in the dorm the first night to find two books that I certainly hadn't placed there—one on being gay and one a BDSM guide book. 

I slammed the top of the trunk down before the other boys could see. That night, after I could hear their quiet snores, I pulled the books out of the trunk.

I didn't even know where to start. I didn't know if I was  _gay_. I hadn't really thought about it at all. I knew the idea of being with a woman was not at all attractive to me. I knew that watching two men together was more interesting than looking at naked women. But I wasn't sure if that made me gay. All I knew about being gay really had come from Uncle Vernon. It was along the same lines as what he had taught me about wizards and magic. At least he acknowledged that gay people existed—but he insisted that they were freaks who chose to be sissy-men. No, I was smart enough to know to throw out at least some of what Uncle Vernon said. I decided the book on being gay would be a better place to start. And it was shorter.

The book was good for me. It spoke in clinical terms without judgement. There were diagrams in the book showing different positions for two men together. And I found that I was interested in it, but only in a detached sort of way. Putting my penis into a girl's vagina was a nauseating idea, true. But putting my penis into another guy's bum didn't sound much better. I couldn't imagine  _wanting_  someone to do that to me. Frottage seemed all right, at least. And while, again, I couldn't imagine putting my penis into another man's mouth, the idea of pleasuring someone else orally wasn't at all off-putting. And just being held in a man's arms sounded absolutely heavenly.

 

Maybe I was gay. Well, a little bit.

 

The BDSM guide book was on a different level entirely. There were essays from people in the lifestyle. There were checklists for things that you would and would not do. There were guides on how to negotiate a scene—a partnership. There was a glossary. The book on being gay was clinical. This was still nonfiction, but there was a passion to it. Some of the things mentioned made me turn my head and cringe. Some made me ache to have them done to me. There were a few I couldn't figure out at all. 

If I hadn't learnt it before, reading the book set it in stone: I was a submissive. I ached to have someone else take control, whether through bondage (oh, how I wanted that!) or through my servitude (I yearned to please), I knew that submission was the path I wanted to take. I also knew the person I needed to approach to help me take that path. I just needed to summon all of my courage to approach him.

* * *

Professor Snape's class was as bad as it had been following the disastrous Occlumency episode. Rather than insult and snipe at me, he ignored me. Which in some ways was worse. Insults I could take. I was used to insults. Being ignored  _hurt_.

For three weeks after I finished the BDSM book, I tried staying after class to speak to him. One of three things would happen: he would sweep out of the room before I worked up the nerve to talk to him; he would give me a glare, terrifying me, and I would run out of the classroom; or the next class would start filtering in and staring at me as if I had something growing out the back of my head.

Finally, one of the days just as he was starting to leave the room, I blurted out, "Can I speak to you?"

"No," he said with no argument in his voice and left.

The game was on. 

Now, instead of silence after class, I would pause for a moment, then ask if I could speak with him, and he would respond with just, "No."

Maybe it wasn't the smartest way of going about things, but at least I was persistent. I would  _not_  give up on this. I  _could_  not give up on this. Unfortunately, by Halloween, my persistence had not paid off. Not one bit.

Hermione mentioned that I was acting strange, and I refused to tell her one thing about it. This was none of her business, and I could handle it myself. Thankfully, Ron was his usual, oblivious self. He was more interested in Hermione, and as long as Hermione didn't say anything to him, he didn't say anything to me. Their on-again/off-again relationship from the year before had settled into a steady twosome, and I found my desire to speak to Snape growing more every time they held hands or kissed.

I decided it was time to go back to the drawing board. If Snape wouldn't speak to me, maybe he would read something I wrote. If that didn't work, I wasn't above getting down on my knees and begging.

I decided to turn in a letter with my next homework assignment.

* * *

_Professor Snape,_

_I know I made a mistake this summer. I know I hurt you and the others at the dungeon. I betrayed your trust, which is something I may never be able to earn back._

_I was going to list the reasons for going. I was going to tell you all the reasons why I thought I was justified. Looking back, they're all just excuses. I was just being the reckless, thoughtless, arrogant fool you always tell me I am. I thought I was searching for answers. I walked away with more questions than I came with. And I hurt people in the process._

_I've done that before, too. You'd think I'd learn my lesson by now._

_I've done some independent homework since that night. Books have been very enlightening, but I haven't been able to figure out how to get any practical application of the subject matter done._

_I know that the last time we tried a subject outside of the school curriculum, the results were horrible. I know you have no reason to trust me when I say that things would go any better this time. I ask that if you are unwilling or unable to teach me, that you speak with me and possibly help me find a teacher who may be willing to take on an eager student._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter_

* * *

"Potter, detention, Friday at eight, for this... drivel you've decided to turn in for homework."

I tried not to smile, even as I felt the back of my neck heat up. "Yes, professor."

"What was that about, Harry? He's hardly spoken to you all year. What on earth did you do?" That's my Hermione; nothing gets by her.

"I don't know. You know how he is. It's not a big deal, though. You and Ron can have some alone time," I said, winking at her.

She blushed. "You know you're always welcome, Harry..."

"It's all right, really." And it was. This was an adventure that I had to do on my own.

* * *

I paused outside the door to the Potions classroom. I had gone over everything I wanted to say to Snape. Everything that needed to be said. The foundation was laid out in the letter, but there was so much more. I had been wanting this for months, and now that I had it, I was afraid to take it. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and walked in.

After stepping into the room, I opened my eyes again one at a time, feeling foolish. Snape was sitting at his desk, apparently marking papers. "You're late," he said, without even looking up.

I wasn't, but I didn't correct him. If I wanted his help at all, I needed to get through this without arguing with him. "Sorry."

He raised his wand, and the door behind me slammed shut and locked. He stood and circled me. I was taller than him, now, but something about him made me feel so much smaller. 

"So, Potter, you think that after everything you've done I should teach you in something that is potentially as dangerous as Occlumency?"

"Um..." Of course the words would fly out of my head then.

"Do you even know what you want? A starting place? This isn't a game, boy!"

I flinched. "I know!"

"Then tell me what it is you want. Do you want me to show you what it's like to tie up a girl? Know that you have her defenceless at your hands; that she's given you that power? Do you want me to teach you to throw a whip or a flogger? To wield a knife so it causes just enough pain to be pleasurable? Do you want to give orders to a girl? Make her your slave? How about how to break someone apart, destroy them, then pick them up and put the pieces back together so that, in some way, some part of them will always belong to you?"

I had only seen Professor Snape care this deeply about potions. 

"You destroyed a man with a thought. You're reckless and foolhardy and have never cared about rules. The last person who wanted the power you seem to crave nearly destroyed the world. I cannot, in good conscience, teach you in this..."

"But I don't!" I blurted out.

Snape paused. "What?"

"I don't want power. I mean... I'd like your help in learning how to be a submissive."

Snape looked me in the eyes. "What, exactly, are you asking?"

"I'd like you to teach me how to be a good sub. I'd like training. Maybe you could mentor me. I don't want power. I've had it, and I hate it."

"Why me?" The words held an air of honest curiosity.

"I watched you at the dungeon. You were really amazing with Andrew. Not just the rope work—which was great, from what I can tell—but the way you treated him afterwards. It was as if nothing else mattered to you. I've read, and I know a little about what's expected of me if I go back to a club like that, but I'd truly prefer to be taught by the only person I know who actually is  _in_  the lifestyle.

"I'm not looking for a relationship. Just training. I want to find out what my boundaries are. What I would and wouldn't like. That way, if I ever do find a Dom I'm interested in, I'll know what to do and what to say. Like I said in the letter, if you can't teach me, I trust you and hope that you might find someone who can."

Snape didn't say anything for what seemed like hours. I could feel the sweat beading up on my neck and forehead, despite the coolness of the classroom. This was a mistake. This was a nightmare. What was I thinking? I had to leave. Now. 

"Breathe, Potter."

I took a deep breath. And another. "I'm sorry. I never should have come... I'll just..." I started to walk from the room.

"I didn't give you permission to leave."

He hadn't given me permission to die yet, either, and that was my next step, I was sure.

"So you wish to be dominated?" He let out a snort, then said to himself, "I never would have thought  _that_  of James Potter's spawn. You mentioned rope. What other things does your twisted little heart desire?"

"I..." Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. "I want to serve. I want to be bound and helpless. I want to take care of another man's pleasure, even as he's taking care of me. I want... to escape this world for just a little bit."

"I'm not a submissive, Potter. I don't understand what it is subs want, exactly. I had enough bowing and scraping and subservience with the Dark Lord to last a lifetime. I've been in the lifestyle for as long as you've been alive, though, and while I may not understand it, I can certainly supply it. So, bondage and submission are your kinks. Anything else? Whips? Canes?" His voice dropped. "Spankings?"

"I'm willing to explore it, but I don't know what's so great about pain."

Snape raised his eyebrow. "Very well. What are your limits?"

"I don't know. I don't think I have any."

"Really, none? So you wouldn't mind if I were to cut out your eyes and use them in a potion? Or cut off your testicles and use them as earmuffs?"

I blanched. "Okay, so I do have some limits. I just don't know what they are, or where to start. Um. How about no permanent damage? Or marks that won't be covered by robes?"

"That's a good start. Here are some of mine. No lying to me. Ever. If you don't want to do something, we'll discuss it—that doesn't mean you won't have to do it. We will have a safeword. This is for both of us to use if there's something going wrong. I prefer to use 'red', but if you have something else chosen, we can use that."

"Red is fine."

"Good. If I tell you to do something and you aren't sure about the instructions, or you wish to discuss it in more detail, or if something isn't quite right in a scene, but you don't want to stop it entirely, I want you to use, 'yellow'. Understand?"

I nodded.

"I will be referred to as 'Sir', 'Master', or 'Professor' if it is easier."

"Yes, Sir."

He walked over to me and pulled my arms behind my back, grasping both wrists in one hand. He stood behind me and whispered in my ear, "Is this what you want?"

"Yes, Sir," I groaned.

"Good. I shall endeavour to give you more of what you wish. Come by tomorrow after the Quidditch game, and we'll begin your training." He let my arms go.

"Of course, Sir."

"Oh, and as you are playing against Slytherin, I expect you to throw the match."

"What?! I can't do that... Sir," I belatedly added on to the end.

"Why not? You wish to serve me. I wish my team to win."

I felt my face heat up, but I wasn't going to let this slide. "I won't. I'm not going to let down my teammates for..."

"Good," he interrupted me. "No true Dominant will want a doormat, and I would not have trained you if I thought you were already broken somehow. Submissive does not mean that you will never question things. Again, if there's a problem, I want you to bring it up with me. Though saying, 'red' is far easier than turning your face into that colour." He touched my neck, his cool fingers causing goose-pimples to rise along the heated flesh and down my spine. "Now, go and play as well as you always do. I look forward to our training session tomorrow evening."

"Goodnight, Sir."

* * *

We won. It wasn't too surprising. Draco's a good Seeker, and he gave me a bit of a race, but I caught the Snitch without too much trouble. I tried not to look at Snape as I was whisked away from the field, but our eyes locked for a moment and he gave me a firm nod before going to talk to the Slytherins. Hopefully, my blush was attributed to the excitement from winning the game.

I took the fastest shower I think I had ever taken, tried as hard as I could to get the mop of hair on the top of my head to behave, and finally put on my uniform before making my way down to Professor Snape's classroom.

He wasn't there. I felt all the dread from the night before return. He was just playing a game with me. I had humiliated him, and this was the payback. It felt like something was crushing my chest, and I couldn't breathe. As if to mock me, his words from the previous night returned to my head.  _"Breathe, Potter."_

I tried. I took one shuddering breath in. Letting it out was just as hard. And again. I went through the conversation from the night before. He didn't say when to come after the Quidditch game. I looked around the room. The papers Snape had been marking when I walked in were gone from the desk, but in their place was a single sheet of parchment.

_H-_

_Tap the wall behind the desk with your wand three times._

I did, and the wall became translucent; Snape sat on the other side in a very cozy-looking room. I reached for the wall, not knowing if it was solid, and my hand went straight through. I stepped through the wall.

"On the ground. Kneel." Snape wasted no time once I had entered his living quarters.

I sank to my knees. 

"When I tell you to, I want you to strip to the level you're comfortable. When I release you to strip, you aren't to speak for the rest of the evening, outside of your safeword if necessary. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Since you seemed most interested in bondage, I thought we should start there. Is there anything I should know? Things to avoid?"

I thought for a moment. "No sex."

"No sex? Could you be a little more specific, Potter? 'Sex' is a vague word."

"Um. I don't want to have sex?"

"You don't want me to stick my prick in your scrawny arse?"

"Yeah, that."

"What about me riding you while you're helpless?"

That sounded absolutely horrifying. "No!" He raised an eyebrow. "Sir."

"Does sex include me giving you a blow job?"

"No. I mean... yes. I mean... I don't want that, Sir."

"You giving me one?" 

Maybe the floor  _could_  swallow me up. "I think that'd be okay, Sir. But, er, not tonight. I've never... I don't know what to do."

"Very well, how about I avoid any genitals for tonight. They weren't on the schedule anyhow." He let out a low chuckle.

I swear the man was torturing me for fun—of course that was rather the point, wasn't it?

"When you've removed your clothes, fold them and put them in a neat pile. I don't want them strewn about my living space."

"Yes, Sir." It hadn't occurred to me to do otherwise. "Excuse me, Sir, but when you say 'to the level I'm comfortable' does that mean I don't have to be completely naked?"

"I'd prefer to have at least your robe, tie, and trousers off. But it means exactly what it sounds like. If you don't think you'd be comfortable in any state of undress, stay completely covered."

"Oh, all right, then, Sir."

"If there are no further questions—" He paused to make sure. "—let's begin."

I stood and stripped down to my underwear, embarrassed that I only had Dudley's old ones to wear. At least I didn't have to speak any more tonight. After making sure that the clothes were in a neat stack, Snape took out a thin black leather collar.

"This is your training collar. It won't choke. It's there to remind you that, while you are here with me, you  _belong_  to me." 

He placed the collar on my neck, and even though I knew it was temporary, it felt almost like flying. I  _belonged_  to him.

"Now I'm going to blindfold you. This has a sheepskin lining; you'll be able to wear it for a long time."

He took my glasses off and fit the mask over my face. The darkness was complete. I had been imagining strips of cloth over my eyes for a blindfold. In my fantasies there was always a little strip of light at the top and bottom of my vision that I could peek through if I really wanted to. In reality, I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or shut. He guided me to what must have been a bed and pushed me down on it so I was lying on my stomach.

He gently pulled my arms behind me so that my forearms rested against each other with the elbows bent. Then I felt a rope being wrapped around and around. More rope was added. Across my chest, down my legs. My arms and legs and back were being stretched and pulled and caressed. I know Snape asked how I was doing. I know I couldn't have answered coherently. I was floating. If getting the collar on was flying, this was orbiting in space. I never wanted to come back.

Eventually, though I have no idea how long it took, the pleasant ache in my arms became a bit more uncomfortable. The rope on my legs started to itch. I wanted to curse my body for making me be aware of it. I wanted to go back to outer space. I must have made some sort of movement, though I don't know  _how_ , because Snape was whispering in my ear that he was right there, and it was time to come out now. 

As methodically as the rope had been put on, it was taken off. I felt myself shivering, and Snape rushed to cover me with a blanket even before the blindfold was off. Something cold was held to my lips, and I turned my head reflexively.

"It's just water; you need some right now," Snape explained.

I took a sip, even though I wasn't at all thirsty.

"Your body's in shock. It's normal after going as deep as you did." 

I still had the blindfold on, and I was still shivering like mad, despite the blanket. My teeth chattered.

He pulled me onto his lap, rubbing my arms and trying to get some of his own body heat into my shuddering form. He whispered a spell that I knew would dim the lights. "Keep your eyes closed."

I did, and the blindfold was removed. I buried my face into his bony shoulder. Even with the lights dimmed and my eyes closed, there was light filtering in through my eyelids, and it hurt.

He chuckled and continued to rub my arms. I slowly pulled my face away as my teeth slowly stopped their chattering. I didn't know if I was permitted to talk, yet, but I didn't think I could have formed a coherent sentence if my life depended on it.

"Think you can walk?" Snape's voice was surprisingly gentle.

I thought about it a second, then nodded.

Still wrapped in the blanket, I made my way slowly to the open doorway, Snape's arm around my waist. I sat down at the table, and he placed my glasses back on my face. It felt weird to be able to see again. There was a tray of fruit and cheese and biscuits on the table. And water.

"I want you to eat, at least some fruit if you're not hungry." It may not have been phrased as an order, but the tone was not to be mistaken.

I reached a shaky hand towards an apple slice and nibbled at it while sipping a glass of water.

"You may speak again whenever you feel up to it."

I didn't feel up to it. I was pretty sure I had forgotten how. I ate the fruit and cheese, though. Snape did the same. Slowly, I started to feel more human.

"Better?" Snape asked.

I swallowed. "Yes, Sir."

"Whenever you feel up to it, I'll get you back to your dorms."

_The dorms?_  I didn't know why I thought I would be staying in Snape's rooms.

"You're going back there to sleep. I'll check in with you tomorrow."

_Oh_. My brain was mush. At least I had stopped shivering. He took the collar off, and that hurt more than the knowledge I was going back to the dormitory.

After retrieving my clothes and making my way back to the dorm, I fell in bed with a smile on my lips. That was the most amazing night ever.

* * *

It was a good thing the next day was Sunday. I was able to work on my homework, but I wouldn't have done well in class at all. I felt bordering on tears all day, and I didn't know why. When Snape checked in with me later, he said that it was just a drop from the endorphins from the night before. 

I told him some of what happened, and he laughed a deep laugh and said, "That's subspace. I hope to be taking you there again. You go there fast and hard."

I blushed, but I wanted to hear that laugh and that tone of voice again from him. It was so... different from what I was used to. We arranged to meet again the next weekend in his rooms, and my training began in earnest.

He didn't always, or even usually, tie me up. He taught me protocol, how to kneel correctly, how to give him pleasure. He flogged me. He caned me. He spanked me. I cleaned his rooms. Sometimes, I did nothing but sit at his feet as he read and carded his fingers through my hair.

I loved being tied up the most. Being caned was fun, but it made it hard to sit down the next day. I liked some of the floggers better than others. I giggled uncontrollably when he spanked me, which seemed to amuse him. Cleaning the rooms put me into a different headspace, but it wasn't a bad one, and I didn't get the same drop the day afterwards.

He and I had a frank discussion about sex when he was showing me how to pleasure him. He seemed shocked that I had never really wanked, even gave me "homework" to do so. I never got hard during our play sessions, and even trying with the homework, it wasn't something that was fun. More messy than anything else. When I told him that, he raised an eyebrow and said, "Hmmm," but didn't make me elaborate.

The only thing he did that ever really bothered me was when he called me 'boy'. I think it reminded me of growing up with Uncle Vernon too much. He must have noticed when I flinched at that, because he only ever did it once or twice before switching to Harry.

I never used my word—I never had to. If the things he asked me to do seemed odd, I sometimes asked for clarification, but even if they pushed my limits, they never went over them.

The second week or so into the training, he handed me a bag of silk pants, saying that I was not to wear the tattered ones to see him any more. I didn't have a problem with that at all. I loved the material, and wearing it on days when I didn't have training reminded me of being with him.

Another of his rules was that I had to be clean-shaven  _everywhere_  except the top of my head. It was a little weird at first, but I found it made the pants feel so much nicer. And as I cast the charm each morning, it was another reminder of whom I belonged to.

I was used to having things laid out for me to put on when I walked in. Sometimes it would be a leather harness, or a gag. Occasionally, it would be nipple clamps (which I hated putting on myself—they did nothing for me, but Snape seemed to like them). He liked to put the collar on me, but if he was running late, he would leave it there with my instructions for what to do until he made it. I wasn't to wear my clothes in his rooms, but I usually kept my underwear on. 

The year flew by, and before I knew it, it was Valentine's Day. I tapped on the wall to Sir's rooms and stepped through, nervously holding a gift in my hand. It wasn't much, just a set of leather cuffs and a harness that I made. I hoped he would like them and maybe use them.

I quickly stripped and went to where he usually laid out my instructions for when he wasn't there. Instead of the normal harness or collar, there was a note on top of a neatly folded pile of clothes. A note was pinned to the top. "Put this on, and wait by the fire."

The outfit was the girls' uniform. Or maybe it was a parody of it. The cut looked a little too short, and the fabric was far too silky. There was a pair of panties with ruffles on them. I remember as a little kid wanting a pair and Dudley teasing me that those were for little girls—everyone knew _that_. 

Every fibre of my body wanted to wear those clothes.

_Freak_.

Sir had told me to put them on. I wanted to. Those were for girls, though. And I wasn't a  _girl_. I  _wasn't_. 

I traced the lacy ruffles on the panties.

_"Look, Mummy, the freak's a girl!"_

_"Get away from there, boy." Petunia grabbed my arm far harder than she should have. "I'll not have a nancy around my little Duddykins. You'll do boy things like you're supposed to!"_

_"Yes, Aunt Petunia."_

Boys don't wear things like this.  _I_  couldn't wear things like this. Never. I was a boy.  _I must not tell lies_. I couldn't breathe. I had to get away from them. I wanted them too much. I wasn't allowed to have things I wanted. Little freaks had to live in the cupboard and play with broken toys and wear ugly clothes that scratched and fell off them. They didn't get to eat. They didn't get pretty, silky, frilly things. Those were for girls. And I was _not_  a girl.

I dropped the clothes and backed away, shaking my head. "I can't."

"Potter!"

When had Sir come in? 

"I can't." I shook my head.

He grabbed my shoulders and forced me to look at him instead of the clothes. "What is going on?"

"I can't... I can't wear them. I'm sorry." I tried to get out of his grasp. "Please, I'm sorry. Please..."

I was horrified that tears were leaking from my eyes. He knew! He knew what a freak I was. He was trying to humiliate me. This was a joke to him. It'd be all over school tomorrow. I had to get out of here. I had to leave. He knew.

"Please let me go! I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

He was holding onto my wrists now. I was trying to hit him, but he was physically stronger than me. It never occurred to me to use magic. He pulled me over to the couch and onto his lap. I was still struggling, but he forced me to stay still.

"Stop. Now."

I paused.

"Now, breathe."

I took a shuddering breath in. He didn't release my wrists.

"Again." His jaw was clenched.

I did. And looked at him. I couldn't read his face through my tears very well.

"Another."

This breath broke on a sob.  _Oh, God, I disappointed him. I disobeyed_.

"Shush." He pulled me to his chest and rubbed my back. 

I tried to pull away. I didn't deserve this. I had been bad.

"Hold. Still."

I held still. I didn't know how he could bear to touch me.  _Freak_.

He pulled out his wand. " _Accio Harry's collar_." He looked me in the eyes and fastened it to my neck. "Kneel."

My training was kicking in, and I obeyed without thinking, kneeling at his feet. The light weight of the collar was comforting. I knew what I was supposed to do.

"Good." He placed a glass of water at my lips, and I drank a few swallows. "Now, tell me what is going on in that head of yours."

"I... disobeyed. You'll get rid of me."

"Did you disobey because you wanted to be disobedient? Or was there something more going on?"

"S... something more."

"Go on."

"I can't wear it. Not allowed." My voice sounded too young, too high.

"Harry,  _I_  am your Sir. I'm telling you you can wear it. I want you to."

The tears were coming out again full force. "I'm not a girl. Girls don't have a penis," I whispered.

"Some do."

I lowered my eyes and shook my head.

He put his long fingers under my chin and lifted my head so I was looking at him. "Harry, I've never lied to you. I'm not lying to you about this. Some do."

I sniffled. He handed me a handkerchief. "But..."

"No buts. Whatever you're thinking, whatever you were told. Whatever that horrible  _family_  of yours said, they were wrong."

It went against everything I'd been taught. It was one of the first lessons learnt, right?  _Boys have a penis; girls have a vagina_. But this was Sir. Even at his worst in class, Professor Snape had never lied to me. 

"Come here, girl." He opened his arms.

I broke, flying into his arms, floodgates open. He rocked me, shushing me. Telling me it was all right; I was allowed to cry, and to hurt, and to _want_. And that made me cry even harder. When I finally thought I was done, he Summoned the outfit. He swatted me on the arse and told me to put it on if I wanted to.

I took the soft garment into my hands and looked at him. He gave me a small nod, and I slipped out of the silk pants I had on and into the panties. I took the skirt and pulled that on as well. Then the little top. My ruffled bum stuck out from the bottom of the skirt, and I laughed a little and twirled as I showed it off to him.

"You look very pretty, Harry."

I blushed and shook my head.

"The correct response is, 'Thank you, Sir'."

"Thank you, Sir," I responded dutifully.

He pulled me back into his lap, and I folded against his chest, suddenly exhausted.

"Happy Valentines Day," he whispered in my ear.

"Happy Valentines Day, Sir," I murmured before falling asleep. I would give him his gift later.

* * *

My time with Sir took on a new aspect. He often had me wear corsets. I loved corsets. They made my body take on curves that it didn't naturally have and gave me the bondage I craved at the same time. Sometimes, Sir let me wear them under my school robes during the day. I read of people who wore them twenty-four hours a day in order to force their bodies into a new shape. I didn't think I wanted that, but I could see where that could appeal.

Most of the time, when I went to his rooms now, there was a new girls' outfit waiting for me. Sometimes, it was a nice gown. Sometimes, it was a French maid costume. Or another school uniform. The materials on those outfits were always soft. 

My favourites were when he would get me an outfit meant for a little girl, enlarged to fit my body. When that happened, he would let me be the little girl I wasn't allowed to be growing up. Hell, the little kid I wasn't allowed to be growing up. He gave me a colouring book and crayons and just took care of me. We both had to learn how to be silly, he told me. He said that when I was in "little space", my job was to make him laugh. And making Severus Snape laugh is  _not_  an easy job.

"What would you prefer to be called?" he asked me one day.

I paused. I hadn't really thought about it. I had always been Harry. "Er..."

"This is not a choice I can make for you."

I thought back to one of the few films I had seen as a child. One of the girls in my class had a birthday party at the cinema, and the whole class had been invited. I think her mother must have threatened Aunt Petunia to let me go. The film was  _The Little Mermaid_. I had walked around for weeks afterward humming songs from it. It was another of those things Vernon had smacked me for. But the heroine, with her ambiguous genitalia and her beautiful face had stuck out in my mind at the time.

"Sir, could I be 'Ariel'?"

"Figures you would pick a name that means lion." I hid my head. "But it suits. It suits quite well. My little Ariel."

* * *

He got me ballet boots. Shoes that were designed to make me stand almost en pointe, but were nearly impossibly to walk in. He said once I was good at walking in them, he would teach me how to do a traditional tea service while wearing them. He said that many, many Doms would like that. I thought I saw something in his eye at that, but I wasn't sure, and I never pursued it.

He also admired my leather working skills. He said the leather cuffs I made were as good as any he had ever seen. He asked if I would be willing to make some dragon-hide gloves for him if he got me the materials. I was happy to do it. I had been mending clothes for as long as I could remember. Working with leather was much more rewarding.

The year was coming to a close, and I still had no clue what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. While I knew the relationship with Sir had started out as 'training', it didn't feel like that any longer. I never wanted to leave him. He knew more about me than anyone else, even me, it seemed.

I walked into his rooms on the last night before the Leaving Feast. Mrs. Weasley had found a beautiful little apartment in London for me where I would move next week. I didn't have anything scheduled with Sir tonight, but I couldn't leave without saying goodbye. Without thanking him.

I stripped down to my underwear, sank to my knees, and waited for him to arrive. I cleared my mind, tried to reach the safe haven that Sir explained was what true Occlumency is. (Why didn't he try teaching me Occlumency by tying me up? I once jokingly asked him.) I was thinking too hard, though. I wanted Sir there. I wanted my collar on. I didn't want to be leaving the next day.

By the time he got there, instead of being in the calm sanctuary his rooms usually afforded me, I had worked myself nearly into a state of panic.

"Ariel, what's happened?"

"I don't want to leave you," I hiccoughed.

He looked completely confused. "That's good, because I don't particularly want you to leave me."

"What?"

"I admit you have some baggage." He rolled up his sleeve and revealed the Dark Mark. "We all do. But I've been training you for months now. I've grown accustomed to you."

He went over to a dresser drawer and pulled out a small box. He opened it, revealing a small chain with a lock. 

"Ariel, would you do me the honour of wearing my collar?"

I looked into his eyes to make sure he was sincere. "Yes! Oh, yes!"

* * *

After leaving Hogwarts, I started working at a robe-shop in Hogsmeade. I had my apartment in London, but Sir and I only stayed there during holidays. My place was tied up at the foot of his bed in his rooms at Hogwarts. It was where I felt safest. 

I came out to Ron and Hermione first. Well, I came out as a woman who was in a relationship with Severus Snape. They still didn't know about my involvement in BDSM. Hermione immediately researched Gender Identity Disorders and came up with tonnes of books for me to read. I told her that it was fine if  _she_  wanted to read them, but for right now, I was happy being a woman who happened to have a penis. I'd prefer it if they could please call me 'Ariel', though.

Ron still slips on that. I don't mind.

At work, I'm just Ariel Snape. It was easier starting with a different identity than changing the entire world's view of Harry Potter. Harry Potter could be a recluse; Dumbledore saw to that. I thanked him every time I saw him for that little deception. 

I followed behind Sir on a leash. He had me in a frilly skirt, a corset, a posture collar, and the ballet boots. My arms were bound behind me in a straight armbinder. We were back at the dungeon tonight; it was a regular place for us to be seen on Saturdays, now that I was twenty-one. He reminded me that the rules were there for a reason, and I was not to question them. So I didn't... and I had a spectacular twenty-first birthday at the dungeon.

The written rules were only one level, though, and as much as Sir had taught me, I wasn't aware of the number of unwritten rules at the different BDSM establishments. One of the top ones is 'don't address a sub without asking his or her Master first'. So I was somewhat surprised when a man approached me and started up a conversation.

I liked the 'don't address a sub' rule. I'd rather not speak to people I don't know, and Sir knows what to say. And tonight, I wasn't allowed to speak, anyhow.

I tried to get Sir's attention. I stomped a foot in the high shoes, and the man, who seemed completely oblivious, kept right on talking to me.

"You're being rude. I just want to know if I can play with your boy, here."

I was completely confused. I was bound, in a collar, and partially hobbled by the shoes. Who could he think was my boy? I jerked my head so that the leash that Sir held was tugged. He turned to me and asked, "Is there a problem? You may speak, girl."

"He wants to borrow my boy?" I didn't know who I was addressing.

"Of course!" the man said.

"She doesn't  _have_  a boy. I'm her Master."

"But..."

Sir raised an eyebrow.

"Everything I've been reading has the taller person as the Top. She's taller than you, so she..."

"Would you open your eyes, man? I'm holding the leash. She's taller than me; I find it helps that she can get things off taller shelves."

I tried to suppress a giggle. I wasn't  _that_  much taller than him. The boots I was wearing made it worse, and it never felt like I was. 

"But what I've read..."

"You've read wrong." He was using his teacher voice. The one that made Neville more afraid of him than Voldemort.

The man scrambled away.

Sir pulled me closer to him. I was shaking, trying not to laugh. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't hold it in. I laughed. "Was I ever that naive?" 

"You were worse. You didn't even know a man  _could_  bottom."

I bit my cheeks. It was true. He found a chair and pulled me into his lap. (Or rather, I fell into his lap. Sitting in the getup I was in was more-or-less out.)

"Are you happy, my love?" he asked.

Happy? "I've found more than happiness. I've found peace."

 

 

 

 


End file.
